


(ABC) Come On, Let Me Love You Just A Little Bit

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts with the tug of a zipper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(ABC) Come On, Let Me Love You Just A Little Bit

Title: (ABC) Come On, Let Me Love You Just A Little Bit  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through S3.  
Summary: It all starts with the tug of a zipper.  
A/N: Title from The Jackson 5's "ABC."

  
**A-Aggressive**

Everybody thinks Brittany is this sweet, innocent little flower, but Santana knows better. Standing under the spray after Cheerio practice, watching the suds slink down her own stomach, all she has to do is hold her breath and wait—and there’s Brittany, right up behind her, hands on her hips. Strong hands, with long fingers, pushing until Santana’s bare skin meets sharply with the clean tile wall. She tilts her head back, already groaning, because Brittany doesn’t waste time when it’s like this. Brittany wants her, and she’s not afraid to show it in the pump of her groin against Santana’s ass, in the thin stroke of those long fingers, skating up the V between her thighs.

Brittany slips in without preamble, tonguing the back of Santana’s neck, and Santana bites down on her own lip hard enough to draw blood. There’s no room for moaning here, no room for risk—only the push and pull of Brittany’s slick skin, riveted to her own, and the steady growl of Brittany’s voice in her ear. Telling her to lean back, to ride it out. Telling her to come.

She insists, and Santana complies, not because the fingers buried to the hilt inside of her are curling, but because it’s Brittany making the command. Brittany, who thumbs her jaw to the side and kisses the edge of her mouth almost clumsily, hard and wanting.

Everyone thinks Santana takes what she wants. Nobody has ever seen Brittany the way she has.

**B-Blindfold**

Her head shuffles against the pillowcase, the rustle of clean linens sharp in her ears. The fabric is tight around her ears, pulling at her hair in places, dimming the world out. There’s nothing to see except the tiny pinpricks behind her eyelids, and it doesn’t matter. This is about _touch_ , not sight.

The sensation of Santana’s mouth as it runs south along her ribcage burns hot in her chest and sinks, following the path of pouty lips and a silken tongue. Santana, hands molding around Brittany’s breasts in turn, pinching rosy nipples until they respond, closing those lips around one and sucking until Brittany’s back arches. She whimpers, hips rising to meet the flat plane of Santana’s stomach as it pushes between her legs and rubs, abs tensing and relaxing.

Teasing. That’s what Santana wants on a night like this one, when Brittany’s hands are bound above her head and her vision is gone. Teasing, with the wet, puckered sounds of heavy kisses, sliding slick and smooth down her belly. With the sticky thrust of Santana’s thigh, lean and muscled, already wet with Brittany’s frustration. With the nip of blunt teeth around her nipple, drawing her so tight she can’t think.

Santana angles up, muscles tight, and stars shoot behind Brittany’s eyes. She can hear the low, throaty chuckle that means this has only just begun. She licks her lips.

“Baby,” Santana promises with a heady laugh, “you’re gonna _love_ this.”

**C-Clothed**

There’s something so hot, Santana thinks, about falling into it like this. Stretched out on her parents’ massive couch, nose to nose with Brittany, breathing in each tiny, high-pitched pant that slides from pink lips. Her hands close over Brittany’s hip and skirt around, until she’s got a handful of that tight ass, the one she’s been watching in practice for too long now. She squeezes and pulls, feels Brittany’s fingers dig into her own hipbone in response.

They knock together, all tight jeans and t-shirts riding slowly out of place, and skip away again. Back and forth, a steady rocking motion that started by mistake—she thinks Brittany was only rolling to catch her eye, to say something witty about the show raging behind them on the TV—and feels now like that only thing worth doing. Brittany’s hips, fitting against hers with a slowly mounting friction.

Brittany, who is half-moaning each time they meet, pelvis to pelvis. Santana bites at her own lip, eyes rolling back when Brittany’s body rolls in a tiny circle, pushing right up against the seam of her jeans. If Brittany were a boy, she’d be able to _feel_ the effects against her. If Brittany were a boy, she could ease the zipper down and hike those graceful hips forward, sliding inside until Santana’s nerves all but snapped.

But Brittany isn’t a boy. Brittany is just beautiful, and growing more desperate by the moment as Santana grips tight to her ass and guides her in, following the rolling rhythm they’ve built by complete accident. Imagining what it would be like, to feel Brittany flush against her, naked and groaning, with every collision.

Grinding on the couch isn’t exactly _getting fucked_ , but there’s something to be said for it anyway.

**D-Deep**

She takes her deeper each time, twisting and jerking to guide her in. Brittany has only to slip in, two fingers at a time—three, if they’ve been going long enough—and wait for Santana’s thighs to spread, her whole body stretching to accommodate the new-familiar sensation. She waits, until Santana’s legs have parted as far as she can handle, and then thrusts with the weight of her whole body behind her arm, bicep heating with every return. Santana grasps at her skin, nails biting in, and parts her lips, receiving each stroke with a long breath.

“More,” she begs, and Brittany eases in further, relishing the squeeze and tremble of hot flesh around her. “More,” again, and Brittany curves up, tracing the ridged spot that makes Santana’s eyelashes beat against the height of her cheekbones.

“More,” and she’s pumping, her own hips chasing the movement as Santana’s legs open to impossible degrees, all hot and wet, clenching and clenching to draw Brittany into herself. Brittany isn’t sure she can physically go any deeper, isn’t sure it’s even humanly possible, but Santana is making this low, desperate noise, and her nails are scratching, and she thinks, what the hell—why not.

If Santana wants to make Brittany a part of her body, who is she to deny that desire?

**E-Early**

They don’t sleep together often enough, what with school and questioning parents and all the rest of that bullshit, but when they do, it’s rewarding. Not only for the comfortable heat of Brittany’s body behind her on the bed, long arms looped around her middle, or for the gentle snuggle of a nose burying itself in her hair, but for the _glory_ that is early morning sex. Middle of the night sex, even, when Brittany rolls over, thighs framing one of Santana’s legs. Brittany sleeps in next to nothing, and it’s not rare for Santana to wake this early, to find damp underwear rubbing, slow and sleepy, upon her skin. Brittany kisses her, half-asleep and cotton-mouthed, and Santana responds without entirely knowing if this is a dream. Not that it matters. The curl of Brittany’s leg between her own, the angle of her calf as it trails beneath the hem of too-short boxers, is too enticing to push away. Sleepy or not, she kisses back and rides the trail out, fumbling for Brittany’s waistband in the shadows.

It’s early, too early for dirty talk or soft laughter, but Brittany’s body is the same at any hour: same heat, same slippery skin, same soft grunt of pleasure when Santana’s hand parts her gently. They’ll regret it later, heavy-eyed and sloppy on the football field, but for now, with Brittany clutching at her shoulder, whimpering into the sleeve of her Pink Floyd t-shirt, Santana thinks the early-morning innocence of moments like this are somehow the most beautiful time of day.

**F-Fantasy**

Sometimes, she watches Santana without speaking up, making herself known. There’s something unbearably sexy about the way Santana moves when she’s by herself—leaning back against a chair or her headboard, knees bent, skirt hiked to her waist. Something unbearably, unimaginably _hot_ about the gentle brush of Santana’s knuckles against her own flushed lips, her panties drawn down around her calves, her eyes flickering shut. Brittany watches, grasping at whatever’s nearest, her own hips searching out _something_ to rut up against as Santana moves with aching slowness. All patience, no fury, nothing like the girl who terrorizes the whole school. Santana rocks into her left hand, the fingers of her right tracing circles into the side of her neck, down her clavicle, between her breasts. Brittany’s eyes follow their path as they skim down, down, closing around the wrist already bobbing between smooth, strong thighs.

Santana knows she’s watching, most times, and it spurs her on—drives her to lick her lips more slowly, to press inside herself and hold, torturously long. It’s Brittany’s want that guides her to this point, stroking bundled nerves until the breath hitches in her throat, until her breasts heave with the tight, mad sensation in the pit of her stomach. Brittany is watching, eyes dark with the fantasy that is Santana at her most wanton, most desperate for release, and _that_ —Brittany knows this without asking, without Santana ever saying so—is the thing that gets her off.

Watching Santana’s hips buck that way, the curtain of raven hair spilling across her forehead, Brittany thinks her girlfriend is more perfect than any outside help she could ever want.

**G-Glisten**

Brittany shimmers in the thick May heat, sweat beading on her forehead and trickling down her temples. Her hair, usually hiked high in a rapt ponytail, has come loose, wavering into her eyes as she slumps back on the couch usually reserved for burnouts and dopeheads. Her hips jerk and jolt, and Santana can’t tear her focus away, even with the dry blades of grass cutting into her knees, sporadic bits of gravel and old cigarette butts making the whole place deeply unsanitary.

Fucking beneath the bleachers isn’t the ideal, but Sylvester’s late for practice, and she’s been craving this all day. Craving, to the point of rubbing her own thighs together beneath the desk in class, feeling the scorch of Brittany’s gaze on her face. Brittany, whose skin shines with sweat, her legs slung inappropriately wide. Brittany, who bites her lip almost lazily as Santana’s tongue works her over—kissing in broad, open patterns that make Brittany’s head fall back, one hand finding its way to the back of Santana’s head and digging into the nape of her neck. Brittany holds tight, tickling at the sweaty hair beneath her ponytail, and keeps lidded eyes on Santana, always on Santana. Taking in the sight of flushed, plump lips as they skim and suck, as Santana’s saliva mixes together with the sticky arousal dripping between them.

Brittany’s skin glistens under her tongue, warm and swollen as Santana laps at her clit, and it’s somehow even sexier than the fact that they aren’t supposed to be here in the first place. To taste Brittany this way—bitter and fierce, unwilling to be forgotten—is remarkable; to see her stretched out above Santana, mouth open in a soundless howl, is even better. She leans back, parting soaked skin with her fingers, considering for a long moment the art she has created.

When she dives back in, tongue thrusting deep, Brittany curls to meet her with a shallow scream.

**H-Hipbones**

She has a thing about hipbones—about the way they rise and fall, roaring after an orgasm just out of reach, and about the way they feel under the pads of her fingertips, and the way they taste, salty and sharp as her tongue skids this way and that. She has a thing about grasping at hipbones on a dizzy, dark dance floor, using them to her advantage to tempt curves forward and back. There’s something about strong hipbones, about the way they jut up from a sinking waistband, about the way they slant back to meet her own, that drives her right up the wall.

And there is something about Santana’s hipbones—the way their curves seem to match up with Brittany’s lips just _so_ , the way Santana jumps when wandering teeth scrape across them on their way down, the way Brittany’s hands deliberately trace their length—that pushes her to the edge. A flash of those hips when Santana’s getting ready in the locker room is all it takes to send Brittany’s head reeling around for the rest of the day. A teasing bump, Santana knocking against her by _mistake_ , pushes her to sink down on the locker room bench and gulp for air.

Boobs are great and all, she thinks furtively as Santana sends a fiery wink on her way out the door, but hips are where the music lives. And—no doubt about it—that is just one of the many things Santana knows all too well.

**I-Intoxication**

Brittany’s scent is everywhere, clinging to the spaces between her teeth, and the base of her throat, and the beds of her nails. Brittany is between her legs, and tucked beneath the strap of her bra, and wrapped around the tie holding her hair back. She breathes, and it’s Brittany, even if Brittany is a million miles away. She should be used to it by now.

Brittany is out sick, the first time in a year and a half Santana has had to go through a day without her, and still, the scent grasps hold and refuses to let go. She feels her head spin in the bathroom, her hands clutching the porcelain sink in a vain attempt to ward it off. No use; it’s there, reminding her of the time Brittany backed her against that far stall, hands dragging up her thighs, guiding one around a dancer’s hip. Reminding her of how Brittany’s tongue raked down her neck, under the collar of her uniform, exhaling mint and apple along her skin. Reminding her of the thud of her own head against the stall door, grasping Brittany’s shoulders as knowing fingers tucked between the pleats of her skirt and rubbed, furiously, until Santana’s knees vanished entirely and her vision went hazy.

Brittany’s out sick, and still, all Santana can think, and focus on, and _remember_ is the scent of her want, the pressure of her fingertips, the hunger of her kiss.

She is, she thinks tiredly, in so much trouble.

**J-Jitters**

She still gets nervous, when Santana smiles that way: predatory and teasing, playful and needy, all at the same time. She gets nervous as Santana advances, with slow, stalking steps that seem to take an eternity to close the space between them. She gets nervous, and the butterflies in her stomach bounce around without care, and Santana keeps coming. Her hands meet with the front of Brittany’s shirt, the fabric bunching; bottom lip between her teeth, smirking, she slowly untucks it from the waistband of Brittany’s tight black pants. Two fingers smooth down the length of her tie and hold fast, even as the left sweeps down across the silver belt buckle.

“Here,” she says throatily, with the air of doing Brittany a favor, “let me get that.” And then the belt is popping loose, and the button on her pants is sliding soundlessly from its slit, and Santana’s hand is cupping between her legs. Her thumb treads a silent path, left to right, skimming the span of Brittany’s crotch. Her knees buckle, arms catching around Santana’s waist to keep upright.

Prom was so much better than last year, and this evening shouldn’t be half as overwhelming as it is—not when Santana is her girlfriend already, and they’ve been having sex for years, and she’s the _class president_ —but still, her stomach tightens expectantly. Santana’s hand, so much smaller than it should be, eases her zipper aside and glides inside, touching her with an easy smile. Brittany grins back, palming Santana’s spine where it lays bare around the plume of her dress.

Love, she thinks shakily, with Santana’s mouth closing over her own, deserves its own jitters sometimes. No matter how used to it she believes she is.

**K-Knees**

Brittany gets bossy from time to time, and Santana loves it. Loves being told what to do, loves the warmth of forceful palms against her shoulders, pushing her down. She loves the sneaky headtrip of it all, when they’re stashed away in an empty classroom: Brittany seated behind the teacher’s desk, Santana tucked neatly underneath. Not role-playing, exactly, but as close as they can come in school, with Brittany’s thigh draped over Santana’s shoulder, her hands fisting against her own stomach as Santana obediently runs her tongue the length of her skin. Brittany likes her like this—lapping between her legs, on her knees, giving it all up for the moment. No power, no control, just the opportunity to give, and give, and give.

There’s something freeing about it, about Brittany hissing, “Fuck me,” and Santana complying without thought. Brittany’s hand glides to the top of her head and pushes down, forcing her to inhale the musk of sex as her tongue rolls in sweet circles, the ones that make Brittany’s jaw go slack. Her knees dig into the tile floor, her head bobbing at Brittany’s urging, planting a long kiss against Brittany’s entrance that makes the fist in her hair tighten.

Brittany gets bossy, but the pleasure is in _Santana_ splitting Brittany’s world wide open. Even on her knees, murmuring, ”Yes,” to Brittany’s every demand, she knows the truth: Brittany is _her_ girl.

She wouldn’t get on her knees for anyone else.

**L-Lobe**

She licks at the delicate, round earlobe, barely grazing the skin. Santana jumps a little, eyes darting around the room. Everyone is watching the boys dance—well, _Mike_ is dancing; the others are more of stomping around in relative time to the music—so no one is looking at them. Not that Brittany would care, if they were. The hot little throb between her legs isn’t big on waiting.

Smirking, she sucks Santana’s earlobe into her mouth, tongue tracing its edge. Santana’s eyes widen, her head rolling back on her shoulders; her hand dips into Brittany’s lap, clenching on her thigh. Warningly.

“Please,” Brittany whispers, more breath than word, and lets her lips go soft and gentle. Goosebumps spring up along Santana’s arm, her fingers inching dangerously near the apex of Brittany’s thighs. “Please,” she says again, nudging with her nose against Santana’s cheek. “Just a little.”

Santana can’t say no; Santana is completely at her mercy when Brittany leans in like this, suckling at her earlobe with light, hopeful insistence. Santana wants her bad enough on a normal day, and when Brittany has her like this…

Her fingers slip beneath Brittany’s skirt, prowling across the crotch of her spanks. Brittany’s shoulders sink back, her mouth still closed around that velvet little patch of skin, tonguing the place where it meets Santana’s jaw graciously. This is _much_ better than watching the boys mangle such simple choreography.

Especially when, upon giving a particularly hard little suck, Santana whimpers out loud.

**M-Model**

Brittany doesn’t seem to know it, but she has—literally— _the_ perfect body. Her arms and legs stretch on and on, her hips slim and powerful, her neck long in a beautifully arched sort of way. Her stomach is effortless, flat and markedly defined without being creepy. She is gorgeous, and perfect, and Santana aches to look at her.

She doesn’t even have to be touching her or anything, running her hands down the slope of her spine or scratching along the taut muscles beneath small, soft breasts. Leaning back on her bed, wrapped in a haphazard sheet, she watches Brittany dress in the light spilling over from the bathroom. Underwear, shimmying up powerful thighs, resting just below the angular reach of her pelvis. Jeans, shuffled up to hug tight hips, gripping an ass Santana’s mouth waters to look at. Brittany pauses, fumbling with a still-tied sneaker, hopping in place as she struggles to slip it on over the slim balance of her left foot. Santana stares, drinking in the flex and pull of bare abs, the line that skids up until it strikes the underside of Brittany’s bra.

It’s all perfect, even awe-inspiring, that the coltish girl from childhood could have grown into this wonderful creature. Santana doesn’t remember the transition any better than she can mark one in her own self, but it must have been there. Brittany never looked like this when they were kids. She never _smiled_ like this, catching Santana’s eye and winking fliratiously. Okay; maybe she _does_ know how perfect she is.

Santana grins back, fluttering her fingers in a come-hither fashion, and thinks—as Brittany clambers back into bed and straddles her hips—that model-perfect people can probably afford to be as cocky as they please.

**N-Need**

She _needs_ Santana, the way she needs water, or food, or Lord Tubbington. It’s not a question, or a joke, or a game anymore. She _needs_ the gasp of Santana’s breath when she’s being kissed senseless, and the trail of Santana’s fingers as they knot in her loose hair after a shower, and the flick and twist of Santana’s legs as they wrap around her waist on the bed. She _needs_ Santana’s taste on her tongue, the smooth dimples behind her knees, the arch of her foot as it plants against Brittany’s shoulder blade and sticks there. She _needs_ the way Santana flows up to meet her mouth and fingers, the way Santana’s body opens to her only, the tremble and rush of Santana coming around her, _for_ her.

She needs Santana in every waking moment, in every dream, and in all the weird little shuddering moments in between.

And, lately, she’s coming to believe that Santana needs her, too.

**O-Open**

Brittany watches as she goes down on her, eyes wide and wanting. That she can keep her eyes open at all is impressive; Santana can never do that for long, can never handle the weight of her own orgasm _and_ the little smirk Brittany wears while eating her out. But Brittany, she’s pretty good at watching.

Santana tends to think that the watching gets her off almost as much as what Santana’s doing.

She tries to keep it in mind while she’s working, enveloping satin skin and sticky proof that she’s in the right line of work with a tongue that knows Brittany better than her own mouth by now. She dips the tip of her tongue in and out, swirls up to lick tentatively at Brittany’s clit, and meets Brittany’s eyes. Royal blue in the darkness, glued to Santana’s mouth where it disappears between her legs. Brittany is in love with all of her, but _especially_ her mouth—that much is obvious when her hips hitch up, her hand toying between her breasts at the sight of Santana drawing back, licking her lips in a long, incandescent stroke.

Brittany keeps her eyes open for a shockingly long time, following every duck of Santana’s head, the pull of her hair to one side, the dance of Santana’s tongue trailing up to her bellybutton and back down again. Santana lets it happen. Being watched, she’s found, makes this all the more fun.

**P-Pin**

Pinning Santana to the floor is satisfying, Brittany’s body slung lengthwise across her smaller form. She grins, bringing her nose to the edge of Santana’s top lip and nudging gently.

“Gotcha.”

“Shut up,” Santana grumbles, but her chest is heaving from their wrestling match, her hips wriggling tellingly upon the carpet. Brittany gently eases her own body down between lust-inducing legs and pushes up, just enough to catch Santana dead-center.

“You’re mine,” Brittany tells her, the words playful, but honest. Santana shuffles stubbornly beneath her, refusing to thrust up to meet Brittany’s invitation.

“Whatever.”

“Mine,” Brittany breathes again, head bowing to brush their lips together. Santana goes limp, fists relaxing under the hands that grasp her wrists. Her mouth opens, slow and lazy, the first act of giving up. Brittany smiles into her, licking at the corner of her lips.

“Mine.”

**Q-Quiver**

Making Brittany shake is a powerful compliment. Brittany is strong— _really_ strong, the kind of strong that comes from hours of dance class piled upon hours of cheerleading piled upon hours of Glee. Her legs could hold her up through a six-day marathon, and her heartbeat is the steadiest Santana has ever felt. So, the fact that she can unwind all of that strength, all of that surprising self-control, with little more than a kiss and the brush of coy fingers…

Santana thinks that makes her pretty badass.

It also makes her stunningly hot, when she grinds up against Brittany in the choir room and feels the first tremble zip through to meet her. Head thrown back against Brittany’s shoulder, throat bared, she rubs her ass arrogantly into the juncture of Brittany’s thighs and grins. Brittany’s arms slink around her middle, pulling her in close.

“You’re mean,” she whispers, nipping at the ridge of Santana’s ear. Santana laughs.

“I’m sexy,” she corrects. “You want me _bad_.”

She thrusts her ass back again, striking Brittany where the need is strongest, and Brittany—whimpering into her hair—mutters, “Bathroom. Two minutes.”

_So badass._

**R-Ride**

The sight of Santana above her sets off a chain reaction in her stomach—the one started by Santana putting her hot red lips right up to Brittany’s ear and half-moaning, “I want to ride you”—and Brittany’s thanking _God_ that she’s not a _real_ boy, because she’d be totally useless already. _Would_ have been useless in that first brush of Santana's palm, splayed across her chest, watching Santana lower herself slowly down with a husky little groan until her hips fit snug against Brittany. Instead, she’s propped on her elbows, naked but for a thin black harness, every pump of her hips pushing her deeper into Santana’s heat. Still trembling, still dangerously close to coming too early—but doing the job right.

Santana straddles her, knees on either side of Brittany’s hips, long spine bent in a graceful bow. One hand rests on the back of Brittany’s neck, the other combing through her own hair as she grits her teeth and rocks, taking the strap-on in and in and in. Her lips part in a ragged, breathless moan, and Brittany pushes herself up, bracing a hand at the small of Santana’s back. Her eyes drift, mesmerized, leaping from the flutter of black eyelashes to the swell of Santana’s breasts, dark nipples straining and firm under a sheen of sweat, down to the wet flush between Santana’s legs. Brittany watches herself move in and out, Santana clutching and releasing, struggling to maintain control. She knows, in her head, that she can’t _really_ feel Santana’s muscles gripping her tight, squeezing at her, working to undo her here and now—

But Santana’s hips grind down with such open desire, her nails biting into the nape of Brittany’s neck, and she’s moaning, this little _uhhn_ noise that sends Brittany’s brain spinning in manic circles, making it hard to keep focus. Hard to keep _sane_ , watching Santana slide up and down the shaft, hips drawing circles of their own as she begins to lose control, and Brittany is bucking forward to catch those blushing, rounded lips with her own as Santana jerks and groans and clutches.

Santana rides her like she wants Brittany to slide so far inside, she’ll be a part of her forever, and as Brittany shudders beneath her, she dazedly thinks that would be just fucking perfect.

**S-Squirm**

The best part of fucking Brittany is making her squirm.

Santana is sprawled at the foot of the bed, legs dangling over the mattress edge, peering intently at the swollen bud of Brittany’s clit. Her fingers rake across its head and dart away, smoothing down the spread of her lips, the joint of her thigh; eyes flicking up, she watches Brittany’s head roll against the pillow, teeth clenching. Brittany is impatient, especially after a long day of Santana whispering filthy nothings in her ears. Brittany wants to ride Santana’s fingers until she all but blacks out. Santana knows this.

But the best part of building Brittany up is seeing just how far she can rise before she comes crashing back to earth. So Santana moves carefully, fingers teasing at Brittany’s entrance without pushing inside, mouth nipping at the curve of her muscles without truly landing. She licks in feathery strokes, blowing gently on the skin just below Brittany’s abs, and bites back a giggle when Brittany squirms uncomfortably against the blankets and growls.

Brittany hates when she does this, when all she wants is to be fucked hard and fast. Brittany can’t fucking _stand_ it.

But nothing gets Santana wet like watching Brittany writhe under her hands.

**T-Teeth**

Brittany doesn’t know _how_ their parents haven’t started asking questions yet. Not when she’s forever coming home like _this_ , sporting fresh blemishes that practically _scream_ , _I’ve been fooling around tonight._

Santana’s got a real hard-on for leaving marks—big, vibrant marks that announce to the world that Brittany is Taken, Thanks Very Much, and perfectly happy about it. She tugs Brittany into her car, pushing her into the backseat with a grin and a wink, and suddenly, her teeth are fixed to the juncture of Brittany’s neck and shoulder. Fixed, biting down, until Brittany’s eyes spring with tears and her voice bursts forth in a rough, _"Nngh_."

It’s out of control, and Brittany would mind a whole lot more if not for how fucking _hot_ it is. Santana drops into her lap like this and bites down, sucking hard at the base of her neck, and it’s an instant punch to the groin—electricity shivering up and down Brittany’s arms, tightening her nipples, soaking her underwear. The bruising force of Santana’s blunt teeth causes her shoulders to roll forward, her breath to gasp out into Santana’s thick hair. She likes the feeling of being marked, dominated, _owned_. Maybe even a little too much.

At any rate, she’s really going to have to start keeping cover-up in her locker—especially if Santana wants to keep up these lunchtime make-out sessions without them getting called into Mrs. Pillsbury’s office for unwanted pamphlets entitled “So Your Girlfriend’s A Sexy Vampire.”

**U-Underwear**

She needs to be quiet, what with the rest of the New Directions amassing on that stage for booty camp. She needs to be quiet, to keep them from getting caught.

It would be a whole lot easier, if not for Brittany’s head between her legs.

Brittany’s mouth is set firmly against the seam of her underwear, opening and closing in the kind of kiss that would be totally adorable, if it was a different set of lips she was kissing. As it is, Santana is slumped against the wall, her fist stuffed between her teeth, because the way Brittany is kissing her now is downright _obscene_ —and sexy, and getting her too fucking wet to function. Brittany, whose mouth keeps settling _right_ over her clit, her tongue sweeping out in long, flat strokes before disappearing again. Her hands clutch at Santana’s ass, gripping tight, her thumbs drawing mindless patterns into her hipbones. Santana gasps, grinding into the kiss, struggling to get the friction she needs where she needs it.

But Brittany, damn her, is clearly getting back at her for _something_ , because it’s all slow, all methodical, the flick and quiver of her tongue keeping solely to cotton. Santana can smell her own arousal, and it’s obvious that Brittany is tasting her from the way her eyes roll shut and the muffled groan she releases into the intersection of Santana’s thighs.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she pants, because it is agonizingly clear that Brittany is enjoying herself down there, moaning softly as she shifts the angle of her head and administers a deeper, longer kiss _just_ where Santana’s skin needs it most. This is going to be fucking _maddening_.

There is absolutely no way they are making it to rehearsal.

**V-Vocal**

Santana curses during sex. She moans, and she cries out Brittany’s name, and she stutters, biting down on sharp single syllables: _fuck_ and _God_ and _now_. She is filthy and unrestrained, and perfectly aware of how it spurs Brittany to move faster, thrust deeper, take her with everything she's got. She’s doing it now, her back pressed against Brittany’s chest, her hips straining to accept every plunge of Brittany’s fingers from behind. “Fuck, Brittany,” she keens, bending forward as Brittany drives again into clenching, slick muscle. “Fuck me, baby, more, give it to me, baby, _harder_.”

Santana swears, and screams, and sings with her orgasm. Brittany doesn’t. Brittany is strangled, muted, possessed by an animal sort of desperation; she growls, and hisses, whimpering when Santana touches her and sighing when she’s made to wait. She hears herself, when Santana reaches fumblingly around to grip her ass, puffing out a wordless frenzy that sounds a lot like _mmnnph_. Her voice is low, husky, made for stolen kisses and secret moments lost on Santana’s quick tongue. The most she usually says is _I love you_ , over and over like a prayer.

She’s saying it now, panting it right into Santana’s ear. “I love you, I love you, _I love you_.”

Santana comes hard with a shout that could split the rafters.

**W-Wrists**

She traces the veins beneath Brittany’s wrists, lost in the magic of deep blue and china-white skin. Brittany, half-asleep and naked, shifts nearer and sighs; Santana smiles, bending to run her tongue softly along the length of the most prominant one, a snake that slips halfway up Brittany’s arm and vanishes. She doesn’t know what it is about this—about the taste of salt on Brittany’s skin, about the fluttering tickle at the inside of her wrist—that feels so intimate, but it’s somehow her favorite thing about falling asleep last. Brittany is so still, so childlike, her forehead smooth and her brow clean of all worry. Her arm stretches out, trusting, across the bed. Hand open for Santana to take it and do what she will.

No one has ever trusted her the way Brittany does.

She loves that about her.

**X-Xanadu**

It's a word Brittany learned from this old, boring black-and-white movie they found on TV late at night— _Xanadu_. They looked it up on her mom's computer and figured out it meant a place that's "almost unattainably beautiful."

At the time, it was just something fun to spit out at recess, making them look smarter than everyone around them, but after a while, Brittany started to think maybe it _meant_ something. Something that only makes sense when she's tucked in close to Santana in bed, thumb skirting the edge of her jawline, watching her brow clutch in the shadows. She thinks that Santana maybe _is_ that beautiful place, the one that's so hard to find, you can go nuts searching for it. Especially when she's all laid out like this, her skin satiny in the moonlight, breathing hard as her fingers pulse inside of Brittany, matching her stroke for stroke.

They bend and bow together, shrouded under a barely-there sheet, Brittany squirming to get closer even as the muscles in her arm beg her to stop—stop touching, stop thrusting, stop making Santana whine and moan that way. It's the sort of thing she couldn't stop if her life depended on it, because it is easily the most perfect she has ever felt: watching Santana reach for her, feeling the tuck and angle of Santana's fingers stretching way down inside of her, struggling to touch the place where her heart pounds for Santana alone. This, sweaty and sticky and sighing with want, _is_ Xanadu.

It's all she's ever wanted.

**Y-Yes**

She’s still a little amazed, how often Brittany says yes to her. There’s this stupid rumor going around the school that _she’s_ the whipped one—that just because she lets Brittany slip handcuffs around her wrists, and just because Brittany is super sexy when she’s barking orders, and just because Brittany sometimes hikes her up on the piano and fucks her until they’re both startled by the post-lunch music class, _she_ must be the submissive half of the relationship. In reality, there _is_ no submissive half; Brittany tops for a while, and then Santana flips her onto her back and takes over. Theirs is a relationship built on _equality_ —something this stupid school wouldn’t know if it kicked them in the teeth.

They’re even, but all the same, it baffles Santana, the things she can get Brittany to say yes to. Skipping class to rut like bunnies in a bathroom stall is one thing, but sweet Brittany has proven she will do downright deliciously _bad_ things, if Santana asks. Like sneaking into her neighbors’ pool while they’re still home, awkwardly fingering Santana beneath the diving board. Like slipping her hand into Santana's jeans in the movie theater, caressing her through the previews until she feels like she might well explode. Like breaking rules that could get them banned from hanging out for a _year_ , not to mention maybe _arrested_.

Brittany even says _yes_ to being her girlfriend after Santana fucks up no less than a zillion fucking times.

No; Santana is _not_ the whipped one in this relationship.

**Z-Zipper**

The first time that zipper came down, it split her world wide open. She remembers it still: the way Santana’s fingers fluttered beneath brash confidence, the catch in both of their chests as they realized neither one was backing off. Doing it for _real_ felt so strange, so much more rebellious than kissing or clumsily groping over their clothes. It was _scary_.

It isn’t scary now; it’s beautiful. And sexy, and still fascinating, even after all this time. She has Santana’s skin memorized—every freckle, every bump and blemish, the inches of ticklish space that meet suddenly with blind sexual impulse—but still, she can’t turn away when Santana is getting undressed. The broad weight of Santana’s cleavage, spilling over the cups of her favorite bra, the soft slope of her stomach as it trickles out into hips Brittany can’t stop seeing in her dreams, the waterfall of dark hair that sways around her face and curls into sharp little tendrils at her shoulders—Santana is beautiful, and she’s got Brittany in an unbreakable grip. She has from the very beginning.

It all starts with the tug of a zipper.

Brittany leans in eagerly, ready to begin again.  



End file.
